<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>starving by Prim_the_Amazing</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23081926">starving</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing'>Prim_the_Amazing</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Touch-Starved, some brief geryen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:02:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,350</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23081926</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt has very, very faint memories of his earliest times in Kaer Morhen. Of when they were all undeniably human. There were so many of them, dozens and dozens of young boys all crowded in together with each other. They’d sleep in piles, crowding for space, seeking warmth and comfort, innocently, naively unrestrained and shameless. Grabbing at and climbing over each other without thought. </p><p>And then they started taking the mutagens, fewer and fewer boys woke up and rose from the floor to eat breakfast in the morning, and all of a sudden there was enough room for all of them to have their own room. No more crowding, no more piles. </p><p>No more touching. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>93</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1498</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Fandom Trumps Hate 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>starving</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/doandhope/gifts">doandhope</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Geralt has very, very faint memories of his earliest times in Kaer Morhen. Of when they were all undeniably human. There were so many of them, dozens and dozens of young boys all crowded in together with each other. They’d sleep in piles, crowding for space, seeking warmth and comfort, innocently, naively unrestrained and shameless. Grabbing at and climbing over each other without thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then they started taking the mutagens, fewer and fewer boys woke up and rose from the floor to eat breakfast in the morning, and all of a sudden there was enough room for all of them to have their own room. No more crowding, no more piles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No more touching. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt walks into a crowded tavern. He’s a large man, but no one so much as brushes up against him. A man spills his ale down in his shirt in his haste to get out of his way to stare at him from what he must feel is a safe distance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Say, that’s quite a useful trick!” the bard that refuses to take a hint and stop following him remarks cheerfully. “Can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a lovely new doublet ruined because of a spilled drink in a distracted crowd.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” hums Geralt, because he honestly doesn’t know how to respond to </span>
  <em>
    <span>most</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the things the bard says. He can’t help but keep feeling like he’s being insulted, but on careful inspection there’s nothing but plain, shameless flattery in his words and friendly sincerity on his face, every single time. It gets his hackles up. Geralt doesn’t trust it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there, like, a trick to it, or--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They just don’t want to touch a witcher,” he says flatly, interrupting the idiotic question that he can’t really bear to hear right now. It’s been a long day, his nerves are frayed, and he knows this pest too well by now to be able to punch him in the gut quite as easily as when they first met about a month ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is wonderfully, blessedly silent for a while. Geralt enjoys it in the same way he enjoys not being actively attacked; he rests. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t last long, of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier snorts disdainfully. “What, like they’re going to catch something?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe. Geralt hasn’t exactly ever sat someone down and interrogated them about it. Some of them do act like he’s a leper. Others, like he’s a wild beast that they have to stay out of biting range of. He’s not sure they even put that much thought into it. They’re just following their instincts. Don’t eat things that aren’t food, don’t touch fire, and don’t let the witcher come too close. Common sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm.” Again, the cop out. Jaskier is yet to call him out on it, which is good, because he doesn’t have a whole lot of other tricks for getting out of speaking. He doesn’t usually need any tricks to dodge conversation with people in the first place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like being a witcher is </span>
  <em>
    <span>contagious?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jaskier laughs, like it’s funny. “That easy to become one, huh? Geralt, please sneeze on someone, I want to see what happens.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt ignores him. If he would have to force himself to say one good thing about Jaskier, it’s that the man at least doesn’t seem surprised when his constant barrage of words and songs and jokes and questions are ignored or go without a response or reaction. It’s not like Geralt regularly talks to humans beyond haggling with merchants, smiths, inn owners, and clients who abruptly decide that the prize they offered for that hag head was in fact much lower than Geralt remembers in his apparently faulty memory. But still, he’s pretty sure that Jaskier talks a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot</span>
  </em>
  <span> more than is typical. He must be used to being ignored to some extent. It’s only reasonable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or he’s just quickly getting used to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Geralt, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but he likes that answer less for some reason. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone grabs his wrist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s free hand goes for his sword and he whips his head around to see who exactly managed to sneak up on him, something that hasn’t happened since he was still in training. For some reason, he’s shocked to see Jaskier exactly where he had been a moment ago, right at his side, happily taking advantage of the bubble of clear space that follows Geralt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s hand is wrapped around Geralt’s wrist, around the thin strip of skin exposed between his glove and his sleeve. He’s grinning playfully, like Geralt didn’t just almost behead him. He probably doesn’t know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt means to rip his wrist out of his hand and demand what he thinks he’s doing, but instead he just. Stares. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is my hair going to go white now?” he asks him teasingly. His grin transforms into something mock thoughtful. “Do you think I could pull it off, Geralt? Or would it just wash me out?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is still touching him. His hand burns like a hot shackle around his wrist. It’s hard to think past it, and just how </span>
  <em>
    <span>unprepared</span>
  </em>
  <span> he is for this. He feels like he just watched a pig take flight out of its pen, or that Vesemir told him to go easy on himself. Geralt is being touched casually, fearlessly (no sour fear smell, not on Jaskier), for no apparent reason at all except for the sake of some idiotic joke making fun of superstitous villagers shying away from him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know what to do or say, so he doesn’t do or say anything. It feels, somehow, like the safest course of action. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is still touching him. People don’t just </span>
  <em>
    <span>do that. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Except for Jaskier, apparently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is still touching him. It’s not even a tight grip, easily broken. It’s not like it’s holding him in place, so why does it feel like that? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is everything alright?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is still-- </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier let’s his wrist go, a worried, puzzled frown twisting his brow as he looks up at him. Like a spell being broken, reality comes back to him. He can look away from Jaskier, he can move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does both, turning abruptly away, marching off towards the man who looks like the owner of the establishment. People part in front of him, not even brushing up against him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels strangely off balance, like he’s lost track of a monster he was in the middle of fighting and now he doesn’t know where it will strike from next, except it doesn’t make any fucking sense because the only thing that happened was Jaskier touching him and that doesn’t make any fucking sense either and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>mad</span>
  </em>
  <span> about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, fine,” Jaskier says, following after him again after a moment’s hesitation, not taking a hint as blunt as a hammer as usual. “You’ve got your personal space, I get it. Pardon me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For some reason, this apology just makes him angrier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt can smell the beast on the air, fur wet with blood, pungent and animalistic. It gives him enough time to down a potion. The one that turns his eyes black as pitch, his veins darkening, his mind going clear and cold. Exhaustion disappears. So does apprehension, pain, anger. All that is left is his sword, his stance, the monster. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The beast comes tearing out of the trees above him, snarling. It tears a gouge out of his arm, and he slices it along the side as it passes him. Blood slides down his arm, his hand, dripping down onto the ground. The beast howls, large, feral, teeth bloody. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels nothing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eskel’s eyes are on Geralt’s hands, his sword. This is why he hesitates for a moment when Geralt throws it aside onto the ground, face flickering with confusion. It’s more than enough opportunity for him to duck in underneath his reach and barrel into him, bringing him down onto the ground, Eskel’s sword clattering away as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eskel may be a decent brawler, but he’s hit his growth spurt recently enough that it only leaves him clumsier and uncertain of his range, while Geralt’s been able to get acquainted with his own new height and weight long enough to only have the advantages of it. He has the advantage. Eskel struggles underneath him, warm and energetic, and Geralt puts his arms around his neck for a headlock (he’s so close he can smell him, sweat and dirt and grass and--)</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Geralt,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Vesemir barks sharply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt goes still. Eskel as well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think you’re doing?” Vesemir goes on. “Throwing away your sword? You’re not gonna be </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrestling</span>
  </em>
  <span> any monsters to submission, boy. They have fangs and claws, you have to stay out of range of those. The length of your blade is your strength. And what about your signs? Get back up and try it again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>without</span>
  </em>
  <span> any nonsense maneuvers like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt does not let go of Eskel. Eskel’s breath is hot against his neck. Geralt turns his head and looks up at Vesemir, who has his arms crossed, unamused and stern. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What if I lose my sword in a fight?” he tries, even though Vesemir does </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>approve of smartass questions like that, boys trying to wheedle their way past his rules and orders. Discipline is demanded, here. “Shouldn’t I know how to fight without it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s one thing to have it knocked out of your hand, another to throw it to the ground as a damned distraction technique. Get up, pick back up your sword and don’t let it touch the ground again, or else I’ll have you running laps until you pass out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt lets Eskel go. He stands up. He picks up his sword. He doesn’t throw it away again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He won’t touch anyone during sparring again. He has his sword, his signs. Letting the fight devolve to the point of grappling is a sign of failure, and Geralt is just too good a fighter to let it come to that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembers Eskel’s hot breath against his neck, the warmth of him as he wrapped his arms around him to restrain him. He wishes he was worse at sparring. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt has had an annoyingly persistent bard following him for two months now, and he’s drinking an ale in the tavern of the inn they’re staying at for the night. People had shied away from him, not wanting to even brush up against him. Jaskier’s seen it happen enough times not to comment on it any longer. Good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple of tables away from them, a small group of men who smell like coal dust and sweat are all explaining to their friend, who’s apparently from further South and hadn’t thought that witchers were actually a thing outside of scary bedtime stories, are all excitedly explaining to him what exactly a witcher is, helpfully sorting fiction from fact for him. They keep glancing over towards him, but in a shifty sort of way, like they think they’re being subtle. A witcher’s hearing must not be one of the ‘facts’ they know about that they’re lecturing their friend on so confidently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t matter. Geralt focuses on his watered down ale and mutton. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“--and,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> one of them goes on, speaking with great authority and put upon wisdom, “they don’t feel anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought it was just fear?” the Southerner asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” the other one says. “It’s everything. The mutagens hollow them right out, so that only the thirst for monster blood remains.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>see here!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jaskier says, spinning around in his seat to point right at the table of miners. Geralt stops eating. He hadn’t realized that the men were talking loudly enough for a human to hear them as well. “I cannot simply sit here and listen to you repeat wild lies, slander, and baseless fairytales!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier,” Geralt says, except the bard never takes a hint, no matter how blunt or obvious it is. Almost like it’s on purpose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone knows--” says one of the miners, after a long astonished moment of them all just staring at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Everyone knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> lots of nonsense. Well, I’ve been personally traveling with a real life actual witcher for years now--” two months, “--so take it from someone who’s seen it with his own two eyes, witchers absolutely have emotions! Mostly annoyance, I grant you, but there’s more--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier,” Geralt repeats, not knowing what to do with this bizarre situation. This isn’t… this isn’t how it goes. He either gets frustrated and starts a fight (and gets thrown out of the damn inn), but more often than not, he just ignores it. That’s what he always does, nowadays, now that he’s gotten used to it. It doesn’t matter what some loudmouthed villagers that he’ll never meet again think about him, doesn’t matter if they’re right or wrong. So long as they don’t interrupt his meal or jeopardize his room for the night, he doesn’t really care. Not really. Not in a way that matters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier turns frustrated, indignant eyes on him. “What? I’m just supposed to listen to them say blatantly wrong things about you? You’ve got feelings, Geralt, that’s plain to see.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t understand why he’s so righteous on his behalf. Doesn’t make any sense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He opens his mouth, and he doesn’t know how to say </span>
  <em>
    <span>they’re not entirely wrong. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s the really annoying thing about the rumours about big scary witchers; there’s usually a kernel of truth to them, enough so that trying to correct them just feels like arguing about semantics, unimportant details. So what if he feels emotions sometimes? Humans feel them </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the time. The fact that he can shed them like a unnecessary layer whenever he wishes to (and has the right potion at hand) probably just makes it more eerie. Not all monster, not all human. A witcher is an unsettling in between of the two. Unnatural. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes his mouth. “Hmm.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier throws his hands up. “You always say that! It’s such a cop out, Geralt.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn it. He downs the rest of his ale, grabs his mutton, and hauls Jaskier up the stairs to their room before he starts a fight with half a dozen burly half drunk miners. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A month later, Jaskier’s got a song about the witcher who is annoyed by stupid questions, who is furious at monsters that kill the helpless, and dotes on his beloved horse. It’s not one of his more popular ones, and Geralt doesn’t know how to tell him not to bother. He doesn’t know what to say about it at all. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The kikimora collapses in an ungainly mess onto the ground. Geralt feels no satisfaction, no relief. The potion still courses strong through his veins. He sets about patching up his own wounds. Pouring water onto them to clear the dirty swamp water out, patting them dry, stitches for the ones that need it, salve, bandages. He doesn’t flinch and curl his lip at any of it. He decides, clinically, that none of it is bad enough for him to waste a potion on it, not when ingredients have been so hard to find in this climate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s in the middle of hacking the kikimora’s head off when it starts to wear off. It starts as a shake in his grip, his swings getting messier, off target. He stops. Takes a deep breath. Walks over to a stump and sits down roughly. Closes his eyes as the black bleeds out of them, taking the cold calm along with it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Going from feeling nothing to anything at all is never a gentle return. It’s… overwhelming, in a way that feels like sandpaper rasping across raw nerves. Too much, too suddenly. He doesn’t have any of his walls up yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He moves, winces. He takes one of the few potions left in his bag, to ease his pain and wounds. Vesemir would say that the assessment he made while he didn’t have any emotion clouding his gaze would be the correct one. But Vesemir isn’t here, and Geralt feels raw, tired, and fucking cranky. He drinks the potion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wishes, a little bit, that it was the one that took his emotions away from him, but that would be a waste. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Geralt became a thing that can feel again five hours ago and still feels shaky from it, he has a coin purse full enough from a recently fulfilled contract to indulge himself a little, and he and Jaskier parted ways six months ago. He doesn’t know why that last part is relevant. It isn’t. The bard had said something about having to attend a bardic competition to defeat his hated rival Valdo something something, and that their paths would cross again soon. Geralt doesn’t understand why he didn’t just say that he was tired of tagging along after a taciturn witcher in the wilderness, that he was bored and ready to move onto something else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know why he’s still thinking about it, too. It was half a year ago. He has a full coin purse, and his nerves feel scraped raw from the come down of the potion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt goes to the local whorehouse. He looks over the available women. Some of them outright shrink away from him, or go still like they’re hoping he won’t notice them. His eyes flit over them without pausing. A few others smile at him and toss their hair, but they smell like nerves or outright fear as well. He ignores them too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s always at least one, though. She has dark hair and blue eyes that his gaze snags on for some reason. Her smile is bright and friendly, and she smells of eager anticipation, excitement. Her gaze on him is fascinated, ravenously curious. Her coworkers shoot her silently urgent </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t do it</span>
  </em>
  <span> looks, full of concern and exasperation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows the type. Suicidally adventurous, recklessly hungry for something novel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(“--promise you, fate will lead to our paths crossing again soon--”)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nods at her, and she beams and leads him to a room. She takes him by the arm to do it. The restless, raw part of him left over from the potion goes still for a moment. Soothed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt wishes he had enough coin to do this after every fight, every cold calm. Every single day. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Their paths actually cross again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eight whole months!” Jaskier exclaims. “I swear, Geralt, I was planning on getting back to you sooner, but it turns out fate didn’t feel like lending a helping hand after all, so I had to find you all on my own, and while you may leave a wake of gossiping in your path you also really don’t linger in a location any longer than you have to, which really isn’t all that thoughtful of you, you really should think about--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt is caught flat footed enough that Jaskier somehow manages to lead Geralt to his inn room, out of his armor and clothes, and straight into a bath, talking the entire way, as if he’s been saving up every word he would have said to Geralt if they hadn’t been separated for eight months, all so he could breathlessly expel them upon first sighting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What,” he manages eventually, talking over Jaskier, because waiting for a pause in his speech doesn’t really seem to be an option right now. Geralt wonders if he’s taken something to make him so excitable, but he doesn’t smell of chemicals. There’s just the faint, natural scent of </span>
  <em>
    <span>human</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier</span>
  </em>
  <span> and </span>
  <em>
    <span>excitement,</span>
  </em>
  <span> although Geralt can’t see what he could possibly be excited about right now. There’s just Geralt in a tub of hot water, for some godforsaken reason. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got monster guts in your hair!” Jaskier says. “Or at least, I hope it’s monster guts. I mean, of course I have faith in you that it’s monster guts, and if it weren’t then I’m sure you had a good reason-- it’s just, guts show </span>
  <em>
    <span>very well </span>
  </em>
  <span>in white hair, you know--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the mad bastard starts washing Geralt’s hair. He twists around to look at him incredulously, and Jaskier makes a scolding noise at him, as stupidly fearless with Geralt as he was the last time he saw him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>doing,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he demands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Washing your hair, obviously,” he says, like he’s being at all reasonable. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I</span>
  </em>
  <span> can do that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But were you? No, you were not! And in fact, no offense intended, I think you may be bad at it, Geralt. Do you know, I thought your hair was</span>
  <em>
    <span> gray</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the longest time? But no, you’re just bad at washing it! Well, let a master show you how it’s done.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier has a tendency towards behavior so outrageous that Geralt doesn’t know how to even start to respond to it, so after a moment of disbelieving staring, he gives in to his instincts and splashes water at him like a petulant child. Jaskier squawks satisfactorily. This lets Geralt relax back against the tub, a smirk of surprised, smug amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You</span>
  <em>
    <span> cad! </span>
  </em>
  <span>And when all I’m doing is selflessly assisting you!” There’s laughter barely hidden underneath the anger in his words, and he swats at Geralt with a towel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier hands go back to his hair, carefully rubbing sweetly scented oils into it. His fingernails rasp gently across his scalp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt should get out of the tub, into his clothes, out of this damned room.  This is ridiculous. Letting him get away with this, it’s sure to give the bard wrong ideas. That Geralt welcomes his companionship, that he’d encourage touch between them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt should get out of here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stays, until Jaskier’s touch makes his muscles go lax instead of tense. Jaskier twitters happily about where he bought the oils and if the scents are too strong for him and how he trounced Valdo Marx and other trivial things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s difficult and annoying to get dried gore out of his hair on his own, he tells himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yennefer of Vengerburg is unlike anyone he’s ever met before. She is powerful, and she knows it and delights in it. It doesn’t matter how he growls and postures at her, she is uncowed by it. She isn’t afraid of him; Geralt has always liked that in a person. She isn’t afraid of him because she’s stronger than him, rather than that she has no common sense. That’s rarer, more alluring. It makes it so that Geralt doesn’t feel like he should stay away from her for her own good. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Yennefer has common sense. She wants, in an intense all consuming sort of way. She’s a forest fire of a woman. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He likes that about her. What he likes even more is how he can kiss and grab at her with as much intimidating hunger and desperation as there is clawing inside of his chest, and she isn’t put off by it. He suspects she might think that it’s passion, and she responds in kind, nothing ever too much for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can touch Yen as desperately as he wants to, and she doesn’t care or think it strange. That he wants her that much is a matter of course to her. It’s not something that’s wrong with </span>
  <em>
    <span>him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s a bad idea, but he really, really likes her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The creatures Geralt slays are bloodless, dry things. Nothing but dust spills onto him, and he can brush that off with his hands. They don’t even manage to make</span>
  <em>
    <span> him</span>
  </em>
  <span> bleed. Taking the potion that turns him still and calm and cold may not have been necessary. But he always takes the opportunity. Vesemir encouraged caution in all of his witchers, anyways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slays all of the creatures, Jaskier watches keenly from a distance and doesn’t get a scratch on him either, and then they go to fetch the prize money. Jaskier knows better than to try and talk to him right after a fight, when his eyes are still black. He doesn’t know how it works, because Geralt has very specifically not told him how it works, but he knows that Geralt never, ever responds when he’s like this anyways. Even less so than his usual. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time they reach the town, the black calm has left him. He clenches his fists so they don’t shake. Tenses every muscle so they won’t tremble. He bites out at the alderman that the job is done, shoving the decapitated heads at him. Jaskier jumps into the conversation, warm and human and reassuring words, taking over, covering up Geralt’s brusqueness. Geralt just grits his teeth and lets him, relieved not to have to talk when he’s like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would have prefered to linger in the woods until he’d felt composed again before trying to talk to any humans, but Jaskier had been there, and if he’d just sat on the ground and carefully breathed for a few hours he would have worried. And Geralt </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates </span>
  </em>
  <span>that scent, that rarer than it should be combination of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier</span>
  </em>
  <span> and</span>
  <em>
    <span> fear. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He wouldn’t have been able to stand it, raw and shaking from the loss of the black calm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, the alderman pays them. It’s enough to stay in their inn room for a few more nights, a few more meals. Not enough to go to the whorehouse. No indulgences. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Witcher’s can go perfectly well without </span>
  <em>
    <span>indulging</span>
  </em>
  <span> themselves, but it still infuriates him to know that he’ll have to feel like this for the rest of the day, possibly longer, when a soft, gentle touch could make that part of him go quiet and still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier takes one look at the sparse room--no guests to entertain and coax coin out of--and gives it up and heads for their room. Geralt follows like a shadow. Jaskier doesn’t take his arm to lead him, because he isn’t a paid whore. Because Geralt froze like a statue the last time he touched him, years ago, and Jaskier had told him that he’d mind his personal space after that. And he had. Except for when he insists that Geralt needs to take a bath, to get the blood and the intestines out of his hair and off his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t insist that he needs a bath now, because he doesn’t. There is no blood on him, from himself or the monsters he killed. It was an easy hunt. He is clean. He doesn’t need to take his armor and clothes off, to get into hot water, to let Jaskier thread his hands through his hair and gently scratch his scalp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels unsettled and shaky from the come down from the potion, and he doesn’t have enough coin for a visit to the whorehouse. He does have enough coin for a bath. But he doesn’t need one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wants for the raw, overwhelmed part of himself to go </span>
  <em>
    <span>quiet. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m calling for a bath,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier glances curiously up at him. Geralt doesn’t know what he sees in his face, which feels as flat and unyielding as a statue. All he says in the end is, “I see no reason to discourage this sort of behavior. Did you know that most people </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> wait until they’re drenched in blood to take a bath? Just a little fun fact that I thought you might like to know, my friend.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt grunts, and goes and calls for a bath. He takes off his armor, and then tries to meditate until the bath is brought up. It’s useless, when he’s like this. He’s too restless, uncomfortable, directionless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The black calm cold is so good, compared to having to feel things. Going from feeling nothing to something is always brutal, but he still takes the potion at every opportunity. He just wishes that it never wore off in the first place. That he could drink it once, and then have it last until the day he dies. That the rumours about witchers could be true. It would be easier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bath is brought up. He takes his clothes off. He gets into the hot water. Without him having to say a word, Jaskier strips to his chemise and rolls his sleeves up, cheerfully chattering about how he thinks he might go down later when there’s more people to busk, how he wants to try out a new song with the audience that he’s been tinkering with, you know, the one about the mermaid that Geralt loathed for being inaccurate, and he buries his hands in Geralt’s clean white hair and he takes just as much time to wash it as he does when it’s covered in blood and guts. Thorough and gentle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sinks into it, and the unsteady part of him goes still and quiet. Not like when he’s underneath the blackness of the potion. A different kind of calm washes over him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just basks in it. He’s too tired right now to try and ruin a good thing by </span>
  <em>
    <span>thinking</span>
  </em>
  <span> about it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier doesn’t really go to whore houses, but that’s because he doesn’t need to. It would be a waste of money, when he can simply talk someone into his bed with flattery and pretty words and promises of a wondrous night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t do that. He doesn’t flirt, he doesn’t charm. He’s not a fan of talking. He’s not good at it. And most people shy away from him. They don’t want to touch a witcher. It’s much easier to just buy a night from someone who doesn’t smell like fear when they look at him at the whorehouse. Simpler. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt has sex with paid whores, so he’s not sure why he’s kissing Jaskier. He was here for every step leading up to it, and it still doesn’t entirely make sense to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier, who is somehow charming enough to continually end up in the beds of dangerously married beautiful women, is enthusiastically kissing </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so </span>
  <em>
    <span>good,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> he gasps, and what exactly is Geralt supposed to say in response to that? Thanks? No, you’re wrong? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just shivers instead. Jaskier’s arms around his neck squeeze, warm and close and fond. The last bitter dregs of the cold calm burns out of him, and he doesn’t feel shaky and unsteady. He</span>
  <em>
    <span> does</span>
  </em>
  <span> feel overwhelmed, but not in the usual way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How had this happened again? The aftereffects of the potion, right. He’d been craving a soothing touch. He’d been </span>
  <em>
    <span>starving</span>
  </em>
  <span> for it. He could have waited until they got back to town and paid for a whore. He could have bought a bath, and Jaskier would have washed his hair with no questions or hesitation. But he hadn’t wanted to wait, and he’d remembered Jaskier saying </span>
  <em>
    <span>you don’t have to wait until you’re bloody to take a bath. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’d thought, irrational and starving and desperate with the aftereffects (and Jaskier was </span>
  <em>
    <span>right there), </span>
  </em>
  <span>that maybe he didn’t need to wait for a bath to be touched. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was bad enough, but he’s still not sure how </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>spiraled to </span>
  <em>
    <span>this. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He thinks it may be Jaskier’s fault. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier arches up underneath him, warmth and his familiar scent all around him, shot through with arousal. Geralt breathes it in and he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>starving. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He runs his palms down Jaskier’s sides, up underneath his doublet, his chemise, across warm skin, and Jaskier makes a pleased sound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t understand why this feels even better than sleeping with whores. More filling. Like that had been a meal, and</span>
  <em>
    <span> this</span>
  </em>
  <span> is a feast. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier,” he says, gravely and helplessly wanting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier grins up at him, bright eyed and flush faced. “Do you think it’s going to catch?” he asks, breathless and playful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks down at him, uncomprehending. Jaskier laughs easily. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The witcheriness,” he explains. “Are my eyes turning yellow, Geralt? Because if so, I really do need to know so I can color coordinate my outfit around it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What,” he says. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Haven’t you heard?” Jaskier asks, close and conspiratorial. “Being a witcher is contagious. Everyone knows that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he kisses him, smiling and uncaring. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>